This sand of increments with no path to benefit… is not where we are. These acts of vision, these feathers, are no mere ghosts uprooted by elegies sung over broken mirrors. I am alone and narrow, true… and am inflamed by the scent coming from April’s tent. My mouth, with its fangs and moonspilled tricks, breathes morning. There is ash and there is light (Sunlight coming in the window, so I guess well see if I can make something from that passing thought . . .)
Posted on: Sun, 20 Apr 2014 08:27:53 +0000